By Jeremy Essig
By Jason Robinson
By Hans Morgenstern
By Joseph Hess
By Peter Gilstrap
By Julia Burch
By Jeremy Essig
By Nathan Smith
"Take a load off, Fanny," she sings, with a solitary voice echoing her impassioned offer, "and put the load right on me." In the Band's original, the load was taken up by a group of voices, joining one by one in a luxurious harmony. Wilson assumes the entire burden, centering her rich, deeply moaning alto in front of the now more powerful acoustic instruments. The song is about the offer of taking burdens, the methods of seeking forgiveness, the mysteries of history and the relationship of the individual to the collective -- themes that resonate throughout the album.
"That song, 'The Weight,' was not planned," Wilson explains. "The very first day of recording, we were having great difficulty. It was very hot. We had a mobile recording truck that came from Muscle Shoals, Ala. It was a truck that had basically been used for the recording of choirs, and that's usually just a two-track setup. It hadn't been used for 24-track recording for a long time, so there were some problems just setting it up and getting all the tracks to work."
A storyteller whether she's speaking or singing, Wilson settles in to set the stage, one detail following another: "While I was in the vocal booth, setting up the microphone, one of the engineers, Sean Macke, asked me if I knew I was about to sing through the same circuitry that Levon Helm had sung through. He went on to explain that that truck was also used for the recording of The Last Waltz. [Macke] and I started singing 'The Weight,' and Kevin Breit [Wilson's longtime guitarist] heard us and said, 'It's a great song.' He said we should do it. I said, 'Well, I don't know; there are a couple of definitive versions out there. I don't know if we can add anything to it.' He worked out an arrangement, and we all added to it, and one thing led to another, and it became the first tune on the album."
More than just the opening track, it became the song on which all the others lean, the reference point for the themes of the record, both musical and lyrical. Wilson went to Clarksdale, Miss., intending to produce a blues album to honor the Mississippi Delta, where she grew up. That would have been a good record, as demonstrated by the straight blues covers she's sung on albums such as Blue Light 'Til Dawn or New Moon Daughter. But Wilson couldn't let herself be limited to such an obvious idea, and she created something deeper, more timely, more original. The blues are always present on Belly of the Sun, but rarely in a formal sense. Even when she covers a Robert Johnson song, "Hot Tamales," it's the one example we have of Johnson leaving the 12-bar form for something less serious, more full of hokum than hell. This seemingly playful trifle closes the album.
In her press kit, Wilson describes Robbie Robertson's song as "purposefully vague, but you hear biblical themes, themes of civil rights, of discontent and redemption." "The Weight" is surreal, with characters pulled out of context, interacting and exchanging their burdens, sometimes seeking to take them, sometimes seeking to lose them and sometimes seeking to avoid them. Wilson follows this song with her own composition "Justice," which lugs out the largest weights of all in American history, racism and slavery. She sings, "Give me a box of reparation/No not the little one, I want the big one that matches my scars." Here the weight is real, the interactions definite, but the desire to exchange or avoid burdens is even more apparent.
So, what could she do to follow that song? Pretend racism never existed, perhaps, with a gorgeous version of an old pop standard, "Darkness on the Delta." Here, accompanied only by 80-plus-year-old Abie "Boogaloo" Ames on piano, Wilson sings of a world in which blacks are everywhere but never mentioned. This is a song about the delights of Southern living, of the joys of the cotton fields, of the place in which "all God's children have someone to love." It's an ironic reading, especially in context, but it's also obvious that Wilson wants to believe in such a perfect place. She knows the song is a lie, but she sings it like a beautiful truth.
Despite such heavy topics, Belly of the Sun is not a somber record. Wilson is entirely too musical, too creative and too diverse to let the album get bogged down under the weight. She borrows lilts from Brazilian pop music, firsthand from Antonio Carlos Jobim for "Waters of March" and secondhand from James Taylor for "Only a Dream in Rio." These songs are more about individual relationships than the tangled social interactions of the first three cuts, and the playfulness in Wilson's voice, which delights in springing around the complex rhythms of the Brazilian style, is matched by the originality of the arrangements. "Only a Dream in Rio" transfers the gentle fingerpicking of Brazilian guitar traditionalists onto banjo to great effect.